Toxic
by this-bright-eyed-soul
Summary: Harry finds himself in a dimly lit hotel room, when suddenly a familiar tune starts to play. Where he is and what the song is, however, is not at the front of Harry's mind; what he really wants to know, why is Voldemort of all people with him, and why on earth is he dancing like that? Advice: listen to Toxic either before or during reading to enhance the experience


_Okay so this is... self indulgent, at best. I was listening to Britney Spears, which is actually something I never do, and I was hit, slapped in the face, by the most hilarious inspiration. I mean, hilarious to me, at least. Hopefully you will enjoy the mental images as much as I did._

Harry started as the music began to play. He was in a hotel room of some sorts, though he had to admit it was a very expensive looking one; he was in the seating area, stood by a dark leather sofa, and the lighting was dim, a few candles creating a sensual glow. There was a large window facing out onto a city, much like what Harry had seen of American cities during the night on TV. The music sounded familiar, but Harry couldn't quite put his finger on it. Definitely muggle…

And suddenly, it was not the music that was on Harry's mind anymore. A door that he had not noticed before was open, a gold glow of artificial light illuminating its immediate path, and out of this door came a thin, bone-white, leg, covered up to the thigh in a black stocking; the kind Harry was a little flustered to admit he recognised from the type one would see on models, or _porn stars_. He felt a shudder go down his spine. Suddenly he was very, very scared at what was happening…

"Baby, can't you see… I'm calling…"

Harry now recognised the muggle song, one that Dudley seemed to be quite a fan of, though he'd been very defensive about it, and the familiar sound on Britney Spears' singing seeped into the room. He possibly could have been able to deal with the situation, if that was the _only_ familiar voice he heard singing.

"A guy like you… should wear a warning…"

Those lyrics sounded so out of place, so _plain wrong_ in that voice; a sibilant, serpentine, high-pitched hiss that Harry usually associated with nightmares.

"It's dangerous… I'm falling…"

In the small stretch of music that followed, Voldemort strutted into the room, hips swinging, eyes locked on Harry's. Harry himself, was… a mix of astounded, horrified, and… was that… _arousal_? He felt a stronger shudder this time.

Other than the stockings, Voldemort was only wearing a very short, very tight, black dress that complimented his figure surprisingly well as he moved his hips, emphasising his waist, his arse, and his- _oh god, oh god, oh god, that is not a bulge, that is not a bulge_.

It looked like he had the dance routine down to a point, crawling along the floor, stretching his legs out, replicating the sensuality of Britney Spears with an ease that Harry did not want to contemplate. He must be going mad. Lord Voldemort was _not_ wearing a tight black dress and black stockings, dancing way too sexily in a dimly lit hotel room before Harry, a strange glint in his eyes as he continued to sing along to Britney Spears.

"There's no escape… I can't wait…"

There really was no escape from this, was there? The door that Voldemort had so tantalizingly walked through just a moment ago had already gone, and the man was getting closer and closer every second. He really, truly, considered jumping out of the window. Perhaps that was what it was there for. Escape. But something kept him stuck in place, a horrible fascination in what was happening.

"I need a hit… Baby, give it me…"

No. Harry would not be giving Lord Voldemort a hit. He not be giving him _anything_. And he was certainly not his baby. Why did shit like this always happen to him? And why the hell did Voldemort look so into it?

"You're dangerous… I'm loving it…"

Oh now _that_ was just ironic. Voldemort, mass-murderer of muggles and muggleborns alike, Dark Lord, controller of hundreds of followers, was of course loving how dangerous _Harry_ was. Unfortunately, Harry seemed unable to voice these incredibly witty comebacks to his new companion; he was forced to merely stand and watch, and oh what a horrible torture it was. Harry did not need to be this familiar with the apparently many wonderful curves of Voldemort, thank you very much.

The riff was like a warning every time, vibrating through Harry's every bone, surging dread through his blood, the fear that every line of the song that came through Voldemort's mouth, the routine would be getting worse and worse, and indeed it did. Harry had thought the leg at the very start was bad enough, scarring, really, but with Voldemort's tongue running so sensually over his lips as his ran a hand up his thin, pale thigh, Harry was ready to end it all, every swallow burning his throat.

"Too high, can't come down…"

Please, _please_ , come down, leave.

"Losing my head, spinning round and round…"

Uh oh. _Uh oh_. Voldemort lifted himself from the ground, and slithered an arm around his waist, pulling him hard against the man's chest, hissing the words into his ear:

" _Do you feel me now…_ "

No, no no no, nope, Harry most certainly did not feel anything, especially not a certain appendage rubbing against his leg. He felt nothing. Harry Potter felt absolutely nothing. On another note, Harry Potter is a big fat liar, and bloody hell those thin lips did _not_ feel good against his neck, no-siree.

Worse, it was getting worse. The music was getting louder, his heard pounding his chest, yet he could still hear Voldemort's voice over everything and he was unable to protest being pushed onto his knees, while Voldemort stepped closer, and thrust his hips towards his face, and-

No! No, no no no no no no no! His meat, his dong, his John Thomas, his dangler, his peepster, Harry didn't even want to know that Voldemort even _had_ one of those, never mind have it shoved in his face and dear _god_ he did not need to know that it was so impossibly _large_ -

Then again he didn't much like the idea of being faced with the other side, but he had no option, no choice, the window seemed so far away and-

"Just call me butt-holedemort, Harry" Voldemort hissed, and with a jolt, Harry shot up in his bed, sweat pouring down his face.

What the hell was wrong with his dreams?

 _Also just wanted to add that inspiration came not just from Britney Spears, but from the importance of dreams in Obsidian Pen's 'Mine' and 'Hauntingly' so though these are WAY darker than mine, as well as painfully funny at some parts, I definitely recommend checking those out for some quality Harry/Voldemort action_


End file.
